


The End

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Transgender, trans!Rhonda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhonda Hurley. We were, uh... 19. She made us try on her panties. They were pink. And satiny. And you know what? We kind of liked it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End

**Author's Note:**

> tw: brief cis-sexism in the beginning
> 
> Please let me know if I have been in any way offensive.

Dean stares at Rhonda Hurley—at the way the soft shirt wrinkles up the small of her back, at the way her jeans gape, an open-mouthed, denim-lipped kiss revealing a tongue of pink satin panties outlining the contours of her waist, highlighting the shallow dip and hollow of her hips.

Dean stares as Rhonda leans forward during roll call and says, “It’s Rhonda, not Ronald” and people are too busy snickering to hear Rhonda’s whispered  _asshole_ as she slumps backwards, pencil beating a rhythm against her desk, weight and balance of her forcing her shirt back down, clothes pushed closed tight as her voice.

Dean asks if she’d be up for a bit of fun on the way home from school before picking up Sammy. She says, eyes narrowed up to thin slits, “Will you wear my pink satin panties” and Dean, he just says, “Okay” because the word slips out before he even has a chance to think—but then, Sam’d say that Dean’d do anything to get a girl’s number so maybe it’s not all that surprising—and she drags him into the restroom, shunts him into a stall, locks herself in the other one, and he hears the faint sound of zipper teeth unclicking themselves and her hand appears over the stall, clutching the wad of panties and she says, “Here you go—put them on—”

And Dean blushes, skin burning as he takes them, wondering what Dad would say if he knew as he toes off his boots, if Sam would say that everything makes sense now because Dean’s always overcompensating for something and it’s not that he’s overcompensating, Dean thinks as he tugs his jeans past his hips, so much as proving that he can do whatever they want him to do, be whoever they need him to be, that he’s strong, and it doesn’t matter because nobody’s gonna see—as he wriggles out of his boxers—these—as he shimmies into the pink panties, satin kisses up his thighs and across his scrotum, tight pleasure everywhere—and nobody has to know that he’s not the son everybody thinks he is because he’s still little Sammy’s big brother, and ain’t nothing going to change that as he slips his pants' button in its hole, the satin so high against him, hugging him so close that he thinks he could wear these forever.

Rhonda’s waiting for him to come out and, commando, he can see the thick line of her cock. “Let me see,” she says and she taps her foot as Dean jerks down the waist of his jeans and there’s a strip of pink across that pale stretch of skin.

She laughs when he asks what else she wants to do because she “ain’t under no obligation to you, boy” and Dean stares after her as she walks out the door, mouth gaping after her as he stands in the middle of the restroom with just a pair of panties on underneath his pants and shirt.

He wears the panties for the day because he doesn’t want to take them off—too much trouble because he has to go pick up Sammy anyway. At the motel, in a steamed up bathroom as the shower runs hot, he slides them in a ziplock bag, buries them under dirty socks and dirty underwear because nobody will look through his stinky clothes, nobody will have to know, and at school, Rhonda Hurley looks at Dean, eyes sharp, jerking down to his waist, and if he’s wearing the panties, he peels back the waist of his jeans all surreptitiously like, and if he hadn’t wanted to wear them, he rolls his eyes at her until that day she asks him to hang with her for the evening, the day before the Winchesters are set and ready to leave the next morning before the sun spreads blotted pink watercolors over the horizon.

They go to a carnival in town and they ride the carousals and eat cotton candy and, when it’s just dusk and they’ve got nowhere else to go, she suggests going on home and watching a Star Wars marathon and they ask each other, “Yours or mine?”—but then just end up necking on a park bench because both their dads are home.


End file.
